


To Dive In

by DippyFresh



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Fatherhood, M/M, Multi, Romance, he just trying to be a son to someone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-04 13:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18605545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DippyFresh/pseuds/DippyFresh
Summary: Snufkin never understood why he hadn't known of his family. Maybe he was too young to remember. But the Joxter remembers. He longed to be a father, and Snufkin longed to be a son.





	1. The Lights

**Author's Note:**

> From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who has begun reading and given me such amazing support! More chapters are on the way!
> 
> (Also, have my twitter @TooTicky6 to see more!! I post art and I'm gonna probably be putting art for this fanfic there too!)
> 
> Hey guys! So quick note: the events of this fanfic are based off of sections in the third book of the Moomin series Moominpappa's Memoirs. So I reference some things here from the book! But you can enjoy it even if you haven't read it!

It was not yet evening but still not the afternoon, yet everybody was about as awake as they would be in the late morning. The Autocrat’s party was in full swing, and by this time the lights strung about from tree to table began to dominate the darkening sky. To the Joxter, everyone danced slow, fading shapes that were dragged around by the music. His ears grew numb to the muffled chattering and screams of delight as bottles of apple-wine popped open, flowing with the sparkling fuel of their jamboree. They became a part of a mess of broken glass, broken shoe heels, and a constant rhythm of clapping keeping up with the incessant cacophony of the Hemulic Voluntary Brass Band. It was almost a nightmare for him to remain there - after all, the Hodgkins, Moomin, and Muddler he had arrived on this distant land with had already slunk away into the dark. The Joxter, however, did not remain there by their forgetfulness. He was perched high in a tree, eyes fixated on the very special Mymble carrying countless children by her sides riding the carousel. His eyes glowed amongst the dark treetop, scaring a few of the guests and amusing the others believing him to be another one of the King’s party creatures.

The Mymble was the fire by which he wanted to keep warm. It was her jovial and carefree nature which he was completely enamoured by, uninhibited in the way she breathes and lives despite caring for an unholy amount of offspring. He had been approached by her earlier on in the party, and at that moment his heart burned and ached to rest on her sides. He even fantasized going through the trouble of hunting a special bird for her amusement. It was something about the way she walked and acted, and the way she enunciated certain parts of her vocabulary made him shiver in delight (as he felt she was free of many conversation conventions) Finally, the Joxter had prepared himself to leap from his perch, flying down at a calculated moment where he would be to grasp the carousel beam standing beside the bench the Mymble sat upon. The Mymble’s laughter halted at his sudden approach, but startled as she was she smiled at the strange creature.

The Joxter, regaining his balance, stuttered the first words between them. “Hup, pff. This ride is fast, no?” His little quip made the Mymble release a hearty laugh, her children following her lead. Her green eyes reflected the lights of the carousel above, forming a kaleidoscope of colors the Joxter was eager to search through.

“Why,” she began. “How curious a fellow you are! Did you mean to catch a ride, or did you just fall here?” The Joxter gave her a sly grin and shook his head.

“Me? Curious? Nonsense. I’m here only to enjoy the moment, and right now I am here to enjoy you.” The Joxter could easily cause a person to warm up to him - it was second nature to Joxters. But he sincerely hoped she could grow to adore him on her own accord, so he berated himself a bit for his comment. To relieve himself of his chastisement, he humbled his tone and offered to give her a push on the tree swings extending over the cliff. But even then the Mymble assured him she could push herself; nevertheless, she took up his offer, wishing her children to have fun on the carousel. In disorderly fashion the two of them skip from the platform’s edge, causing a crowd of people to part in their wake. The two of them ran far up the hill to reach the dejected swings.

  
  


The sky above them was a sapphire hue, freckled by the faint glow of a million stars against the orange light of the setting sun. After a few minutes of pushing themselves above the cliff and causing themselves a great amount of fear, the two of them sat simply dangling. Out of breath, the Joxter turns to face the Mymble. She was bathed in warmth, cheeks flushed and standing out amongst the dark fur coat she had covered herself in. They had no words they needed to say to each other. Both were completely comfortable in their silence, but the Joxter still wanted to hear the Mymble talk. His whiskers twitched ponderously, and he proceeded to ask her where she was from, and how she ended up on such a remote island.

“Where I’m from, you ask? Hah!” She turned the corners of her mouth up in a way that showed her teeth, exposing her glee. “Why, I’ve been everywhere. And somehow, I ended up here! I forget the whole story, so I don’t particularly care about where I’m from - just where I am now.” She felt content with her own response, drawing out a long sigh that the Joxter carried on. He was very used to people gloating of their travels and where they have been and where he hadn’t been, so he felt particularly refreshed by these insights.

“Well dearest,” he assented. “It appears I have fallen madly in love with your words. My paws can’t help but grow sweaty on these ropes here. You are quite a remarkable creature.” His sudden sincerity was somewhat off putting but nothing short of charming. This prompted her to ask the Joxter his own origins. He gawked, becoming at a loss for words, and had to put some thought into what he would say. He took down the hat sitting upon his head, revealing dark fur which he proceeded to rub nervously.

“I came out of the dirt and grew alongside lily-of-the-valley one summer’s eve. I live now as I’ve always had, so I’ve no need for... meaningless origins.” The Joxter shrunk into himself a bit, slightly remorseful at such a vague response. He had attempted to match the caliber of her poetic philosophy but felt he had failed miserably. The Mymble’s amusement said otherwise.

“Hah, hah, what a spoiled animal you must be, treating yourself to such a lax way of life! I myself have never met a Hemulen, Toffle, or even a Joxter as nuanced as you are!” By this the Joxter began to think and grew slightly offended.

“I’m not as nitpicky as a Hemulen, not nearly as nervous as a Toffle, and, most certainly, I am no foul cat of a Joxter.” The Joxter’s mind went somewhere, but he didn’t stay there long.

“O-oh!” The Mymble grew flustered. “No, I didn’t mean it quite like that! You are just free on your own terms.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Joxter placated.

After a few more swings, the Mymble offered to walk the Joxter through the island’s nighttime spectacles. She had called for her children in one sweeping whistle, sending dozens of small creatures her way. The two of them walked ahead, making jabs at this what and that what, often letting their enjoyment be heard throughout the valley, and then stewing in the thoughts of their humor - only to resume snickering. The children soon caught up, first grasping at their mother’s tail dragging on the ground. But the Joxter’s seemed to amuse them more, and soon he was swarmed with brigades of small creatures clasping and scratching at whatever they could. The Mymble thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle, watching as the Joxter hissed and tried to reach out away from their burden. At one point, a young girl had bitten the end of his tail, causing him to crouch and arch his back much like any Joxter would in such a situation. He whined and vehemently refused the urge to hiss at them, as that would be rude. The Mymble extending her paw out to him, coarse fur contrasting that which was soft on her coat. He used this as a prop to land on her broad shoulders, which comfortably supported his weight. The Mymble, fully expecting this from a Joxter, released a confident sigh. He followed her breath again.

“Hah!” the Mymble tittered. “Would you mind letting down my hair while you’re up there? It has been an incredibly long night, and I’d wish to free it from its duty of punishing me with a poor headache!” The Joxter went to work lazily undoing the net and ribbon that held her hair taut. The Mymble had appreciated his tender pawing and intermittent head-massages. Once he had freed her hair, it came rolling out in long, flowing waves. It was red, and silky much like her coat. When it fell it hugged him much like the leaves go to hug an apple in a tree. He was content, resting in all of the Mymble which was soft and loving.

The Joxter leaned in to the Mymble’s right ear and whispered, “No, children are too free and wild for my old spirit. They make me feel aged, my dear.”

The Mymble looked up at his hat, adorned with wilted flowers that were beginning to fall crinkled into her hair. “Well is  _ a child _ more your tempo?” The Joxter’s half-closed eyes shot open, and he tightened up on her shoulders, pulling her coat back in his grasp. There was little more the Mymble could do other than chortle, exuberant as her voice was.


	2. Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mymble and the Joxter talk.

Once all of the land’s newest inhabitants had settled down, everything seemed too fit as to fall into place. The Joxter had been staying in the Mymble’s apple tree for two years now, always picking at the ripe fruits to snack on before every nap. But in the past two months the Joxter has taken up living in the attic, where he’d rather hunt mice than come down to eat the Mymble’s cooking. But often he’d catch a pretty bird to show the Mymble, which she took with great regard. The distance they shared was as a matter of fact mutual. The Mymble often ran off to multitudes of parties the Joxter didn’t mind her going to, but it didn’t seem like she had conceived or birthed any more children than the ones she had already been pregnant with when they first found each other.

“Joxter sweetheart, would you mind coming down? The children are finally stowed away in their bedrooms.” The Joxter leaned over the beam he was resting atop, spotting the Mymble’s round form below. He hopped down from step to wall to cabinet to floor, meeting her with a gentle kiss on her paw. The Mymble held him there. “Let us talk, dearest.”

The Joxter, unsure of what was to come, sat down next to the Mymble at the long dinner table. His tail swung to and fro, indicating his curiosity. He looked down at the tablecloth, a gift by the Autocrat from not too long ago. He hadn’t seen it in some time for being isolated in the attic, and he noted a multitude of stains, all different in color and shape. And some were even fresh. They’d both been away from each other for some time now.

The Mymble began by teasing him. “You’ve been up in the attic doing who knows what! Don’t you ever get worried as to where I’m heading, or who I’m with?” The Joxter shrugged, clothes loose on his shoulders. He never felt strongly about romantic commitments - nothing ever seemed permanent and unchanging to him, as a matter of fact. So he explained that he knows she’ll always come right back home and that that was enough for him. The Mymble beamed, grateful for his answer. Characters like his were hard to come across in this land, scarce in people as it often seemed.

“Aha! And where have you been, dearest? Why do you spend your time in the attic? I’ve had countless apples fallen to the ground, overripe and uneaten. That tree misses you!” The Mymble stared for a moment but smirked as the Joxter pulled his hat over his ears, blushing underneath.

“Well you see,” he paused, processing his words. “Your children have found me a common plaything when I rest in that tree. They know how to climb it, too. Pull on my tail, will they! And more than once I’ve found some of them teething on my shark tooth!” The Mymble raised an eyebrow.

“A shark tooth, you say? Hmm, from where perhaps?” The Mymble rested her head in her hands, letting her long eyelashes flutter. He described one voyage he took on  _ The Amphibian _ with his old crew, where he had at one point gone for a swim and was nibbled on by a curious shark. It had left that tooth as an apology gift. Both of them thoroughly enjoy this story, and laugh weakly in response. It became silent for a moment in the most uncomfortable way possible. The Mymble was not one for the tight atmosphere. 

“Joxter-”

“Mymble, I -” Both of them had stopped each other, but the Joxter continued. “I… need to see the world. It’s torture living in a house, dear, and I can’t take these children much longer.” The Mymble nodded, and he was slightly surprised by her response. They were both two birds of a feather: free spirits looking for nothing other than a purpose to be where they are at currently. 

The Mymble continued nodding, looking towards the wall at the big family portrait, the Joxter included. “Ahum, yes, I can’t help but feel guilty on my trips now that you live in the house! The children I have now are growing older - so much so that everyone’s hair has grown in! I do wish to see some smaller ones around the house again.” She stared longingly at the photograph, hoping to soon get it retaken with multitudes more of relations. “We are more akin to friends than lovers, I suppose.”

The Joxter's face turned suddenly. He knew exactly what she meant, and it was another perfect phrase to have escaped her. They smiled and looked deep into each other's eyes searching for the deep longing which wracked both of their hearts. Neither were particularly saddened, but they weren't quite joyous either. In the past two years they had lived only floating with the tide knowing very well they wished to land at their own shores. The Joxter, not wanting to dwell on such uncomfortable feelings, stood up.

“It appears I've made my intentions known,” said he while stretching, arms raised towards the ceiling. “I suggest we not make this tedious as to make it torturous my dear.” He bowed before her, ready to leave her home as empty-pocketed as he came in. But the Mymble was quick to stop him.

“Wait, please!” she urged. The Mymble raised her index finger high in the air and kept it there as she searched the house. “You should take with you a gift for all your troubles.” But the Joxter insisted she had no trouble to give him. He waited anxiously, watching her shuffle and scurry opening cabinets and searching under tables. She headed out to the back garden where he followed her to, and in the faint glow of moonlight stood her bending down to pick up something: a small child.

“He is yours, dearest. He’s most certainly yours! I wasn't quite as sure before, but he's got a peculiar tail and exhibits the introversion I've seen in very rare Mumriks! I don’t usually birth Mumriks - I birth Mymbles…” The Mymble stopped talking, seeing that the Joxter's eyes were opened wide and taking in all that was his child. He was small and had furry limbs that reached out to his father. The Mumrik's tail curled and straightened, wagged to and fro at the sight of the stranger. His deep chestnut eyes were big and bright, the moon keeping form in them like it would upon glass. This child was beautiful.

The Joxter mustered up a few quiet words, “Does… does he have a name?” The Mymble gave a jolly release.

“No, no. I couldn't think of one. He was too strange for me to capture him in a name!” A spark had lit something in the Joxter's mind.

“Well, what if we called him the Child of the Snuffed Flame? Maybe Snufkin, for convenience.” The Mymble’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“And why so?”

“Because,” at this point the Joxter took his hat off and held it over his chest smiling. “I had fallen deeply in love with you the moment the sun had set over the horizon. The stars watching over us swoon had seen a Mumrik on the way, I suppose.” The Mymble gave a big sigh, her face becoming red.

“Well! You said that night you only fell in love with my words! Explain it!” She countered, playfully bending down to his height.

“Yes, the words that had escaped that big heart of yours and touched me past those pink bowed lips of yours - you know, the ones ripe for kissing!” The two of them hissed at such a cheesy compliment. Light chuckling was followed by silence. Then the Joxter, quick to return to his thoughts, dwelled on something he held in his heart for a while now.

“Would it…” He paused. “Would it have been any different - even in the slightest - if I had asked you to marry me?” The Mymble's face grew weak, frowning. In the past two years he had expected the Autocrat to watch over their fine wedding someday, but that day never came. She was deeply appreciative of this thought, as she knew very well his philosophies and how he craved independence.

“Of course not, you free spirit. Marriage would only make us sadder, no?” confessed the Mymble. With a little pain, the Joxter gave a small nod. It was time for him to leave.

The Mymble leaned over, and the two held a fine kiss. They seemed of the same variety in the dark night, as they had been even in daylight. Without being asked, the Joxter pawed at her hair like he always did, letting it run over her face. The Mymble passed their child to the Joxter, who he slung over his chest with his soft yellow scarf. Like an animal in search of nothing, the Joxter had crawled past the garden and headed straight into the tall grass, disturbing it as he meandered further and further away. In both of their hearts they held loving memories of each other, no moment duller than another. The Mymble maintained a big grin on her face as she retreated to the warmth of her house, contemplating the next color she would apply to the frame of a new family portrait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy! Another chapter is on its way soon!!!! Thank you for reading!!


	3. The Basket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy to say goodbye so soon.

_ With what deep murmurs through time’s silent stealth _

_ Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat’ry wealth _

_ Here flowing fall, _

_ And chide, and call, _

_ As if his liquid, loose retinue stay’d _

_ Ling’ring, and were of this steep place afraid; _

_ The common pass _

_ Where, clear as glass, _

_ All must descend _

_ Not to an end, _

_ But quicken’d by this deep and rocky grave, _

_ Rise to a longer course more bright and brave. _

  


“The Waterfall,” by Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

  


The grass was terribly tall. This point in the spring season was prime time for foraging bilberries and wild strawberries, but that wasn’t quite why the Joxter was there (although, he did grab a few berries to snack on here and there). Opposite to his foraging paw he held the young Snufkin, now four springs of age. In the Joxter’s hold the pup looked out and around the world, not particularly at anything however. He would often reach out to grasp onto a passing blade of grass, only to pull away as its sharp phytoliths dug into his tiny paw. No, the Joxter was here to find a very special patch in this span of the field he knew very well. He grew up here, as a matter of fact. Since the autumn he left Mymble, the Joxter has been busy doing the exact thing every Joxter ought to do: eat, rest, and travel. And travel he did. With him for the trip was that small Mumrik, who could now see and love the sight of land and the sun and the stars just as much as his father does. And after so long, the Joxter found his way back to the valley he was born in many years ago. The two of them happened upon a very familiar clearing covered in white and green.

“Here,” the Joxter sat his son down first and proceeded to sit beside him. “These flowers, they are beautiful no?” He reached out to one of them, plucking its stem from the dirt. He spun it around his digits, finding the delicate bells twirling and waltzing, pausing, changing direction. How he used to dance with the Mymble like so! Oh, how he often missed her so.

Snufkin giggled a tiny bit, and this put light into his father’s heart. “Pappa, what are they?” the Joxter, pleased that he had asked, picked up Snufkin and propped him in his lap.

“You see my son, these are called lily-of-the-valley. They are common here, and the flowers come out to play only in the springtime.” As the Joxter said this, he danced them above Snufkin’s face, lightly tickling his rosy cheeks. He settled the stem in the pup’s head of fur and began braiding the stem in. “Your pappa has always wanted to come back here, my dear, and I must be the happiest pappa in the world to be here with you!” Snufkin half-understood his father’s words but smiled with him nonetheless. The Joxter planted several small kisses on the boy’s nose and held him in his arms a while. Snufkin was not the burden the Joxter initially worried him to be. This boy was an extension of the Joxter. In fact, the Joxter admired his son so much he kept away from nearly every creature he could eye at a distance lest they were to harm the boy. The young pup stood by his father like he was a reading glass. The Joxter now tasted the berries better and felt what parts of the ground were loose and what parts were solid. He could catch a fish or two quicker and find nicer spots to nap. Snufkin did his part, too. He often alerted the Joxter of a beautiful creature or a nice flower here and there. The world was quite wonderful to them, and finally arriving in the Joxter’s valley provided the two of them with a sense of bliss and belonging the Joxter hadn’t felt in years. But now he began traveling to places in his mind he often did not like to wander in. He paused for a good time.

“My son, you must know something,” the father gave a long sigh, saddened to continue his thoughts. “It should be of greatest importance in your conscience to never eat these berries. They are very bad for you, and they could hurt you even if you just tasted them.” He picked off and held a few round ones in between his digits at a distance. He allowed Snufkin to look at them and to memorize their shape, and, sweet of a boy he was, he nodded with a slight ah-hum. The Joxter, receiving his affirmation, crushed the berries, leaving behind a juicy mash for reason to wipe his paw on the grass with. In that moment, the two sat staring at the clouds above, wondering what strange creatures lay on them. The Joxter wanted to believe his son was not thinking about the berries, but he was. Snufkin didn’t fully understand why his father had crushed them instead of eating them. Maybe he had to crush them too when he was older, and wipe his paws on the dirt to wish of new plants growing on them. Then he could eat all of the wild bilberries and strawberries and, well, whatever berries those were to his heart’s content. All was quiet except the realms of Snufkin’s mind. The Joxter, feeling his own bones ache, decided it was a great time to teach Snufkin a valuable skill.

“Snufkin, let me enlighten you with something beautiful: let us nap, and upon our wake we shall do nothing but start a fire to sleep by some more!” The Joxter, highly passionate about this pastime, held a certain eagerness in his voice that startled Snufkin. The Mumrik was slightly confused, but it wouldn’t take much for him to fall asleep. The only thing keeping the boy up now was the thought of whatever that word was. Emphabeten. Elgitanten. His musing continued on until he bored himself to his eyes’ rest. Now all was quiet in the clearing.

  
  
  


“I’m sorry,” the Hemulen relented, placing his cough-suppressants and herb boxes back in his basket, lined with checkered fabric that the Joxter anxiously noted. “I’m afraid he may not even see to the end of this week. Farewells are due, young man.” Without another word between the two of them, the Hemulen gathered his basket and coat to continue on his way out of the forest. That Hemulen was the only passerby the Joxter had seen this winter since Snufkin fell ill. At one point, the Joxter awoke to find his son crying and shivering. It appeared he had caught a sort of flu or bug, and it was quite stubborn. The Joxter’s heart ached for his son’s pain to cease.

At night the distraught father gathered as much wood as he could to start a fire and to build shelter. He lay under rows of branches which the small and feeble Snufkin under with him. Snufkin’s labored snoring made his father’s soul swell in anguish. The poor pup, he was to die.

And so the Joxter went to work. Before he was a vagabond, he was a craftsman. The Joxter gathered fibers and went to work constructing a sturdy basket for his son. Each weave and tug moved the Joxter to sob in solitude, lest he wake his son sleeping as peacefully as he could. Early into the night, the basket, small but well-done as it was, was complete. The Joxter came upon a family of small dogs who sympathized with the Joxter and pressed for him some dyed felt. Though he had asked for red, they gave him green instead. But the Joxter was not in a position to argue, so he went on walking back to camp. When he returned a few small critters had made their way to the fire to keep warm, and the Joxter had not the patience for them. He promptly shooed them away, something a Joxter wouldn’t normally do (normally, they’d be the ones to run away). Atop a plank the Joxter found at the site of an abandoned cabin, he began felting a hat and some new clothes for his son. If he was to die, he would die warm and surrounded by his father’s labor of love, the Joxter concluded. After finishing up the Mumrik’s new clothes, he stood late in the night simply watching Snufkin breathe. As the stars disappeared above, Snufkin began opening his eyes.

“Pa..ppa… It’s so cold, pappa.” The Joxter scurried to take his son into his arms. Sitting there, the Joxter held back tears and gave for Snufkin the great big cat-toothed smile he loved to see. Snufkin’s eyes were only half opened, and his body hung limp within the Joxter’s shaky grasp.

“It’s okay, dear, I’m here.” The Joxter sniffed the air, smelling the fresh scent of bog moss that could direct him to a freshwater river. “We should adventure today, my son.” The Joxter packed some berries from the surrounding bushes into the deep pockets of his tunic. Almost in mechanical fashion, the Joxter proceeded to dress Snufkin in the clothes he had made for him. They were big for his tiny son, but that was purposeful. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Snufkin could live to grow into the clothes the Joxter made for him, so plenty room must be provided. In one paw his basket, in the other cradled the world.

It wasn’t long before they reached the river, where hornwort and bulrush populated the water’s edge. The Joxter placed the basket by the sandbed but remained holding Snufkin as he gathered grass and plenty of flowers. In the basket he lined it with many pretty things. There in the middle the prettiest, his son, provided with that sweet bedding and plenty of berries. Upon Snufkin’s neck the Joxter drew from his own his yellow scarf. Tying it, he felt Snufkin grasp it so tight. So very tight. He endured the shiver of the wind and the guilt crawling on his back as he looked down on his shrivelled son. Snufkin was now very pale and hardly moving, his thin tail dropping over the edge of his craftsmanship. He was so small. The Joxter had never known somebody he loved so deeply who was placed on this planet before him so small. He resented a lot of forces for acting on him so mercilessly. Oh, he was just too small for this world. Too small indeed, and now it was time to say goodbye. 

Holding the basket still the Joxter stood and kicked off his boots. He waded into the riverbed, where water rushed on all sides of him. He didn’t want to watch his son die. He wished for his son to rise out of the basket he held a healthy man. Maybe someday that could happen. He couldn’t bear living in a world where he knew his one true love no longer crawled or stumbled. That was so unfair, he thought, so very unfair. So he lowered the basket, satisfied that no water rushed in from the bottom. From there, he bent down, kissing his son ever so softly for one last time. “Goodbye my dear Snufkin. I hope you rest well. Come back to me, will you?” And with those parting words, the Joxter’s paws released. He stood there ever so helplessly as that beloved basket travelled down the riverbed, tears running marathons and meeting his lips in a grimace. He hadn’t grieved so terribly in years, he was afraid he’d turn invisible. His mind and his crystal-clear eyes were intensely focused on that basket, but then, just then.

“Pappa!”

It was Snufkin. He could hear him crying a distance away. Oh, how scared he must have been! No sense was left of the Joxter, his feet now frozen numb in the wintery water. He tried pushing along the current, finally reaching the point where the watery depths plummeted. The water below him was the deepest blue he’d ever seen water. He kept looking down. He had always been afraid to swim. He only swimmed once in a hurry away from something. He wanted to run away now. But up ahead, he saw his son, the basket. He had to dive in.

And so he did.

Water splashed all around the Joxter as he struggled to keep his eyes on the basket. There was nothing below him, and that terrified the Joxter to no end. At points the Joxter didn’t realize he wasn’t breathing, and only could discover this through the excruciating tightening in his chest. He was so scared. He only saw himself get further and further away from his son, but he could still hear his screams. No, he thought, please don’t go any further. A calming of the water had ensued, and the Joxter found his footing in the shallow riverbed. He sprinted forth, enthralled at his sudden fortune. Oh, his son! How he longed to hold him after this. He seemed so close. The Joxter’s heart raced and pushed him forward.

And just as quick, the basket had disappeared.

The Joxter was unsure if his eyes were deceiving him, but moving forward he began looking down towards a massive waterfall. The white fuzz of its agape mouth remained mocking the too slow Joxter. In it, he saw nothing, but he knew his son was somewhere there. No, where could he have gone? He couldn’t go in. The Joxter was just too afraid. His chest felt it was ready to burst. It was too much for him. He was so certain that his love was dead. There’s no denying that Snufkin was dead. Guilt lay rampant in his head, bouncing around in his skull to the rest of his body. He felt terribly weak. And so, he ran.

  


  


On the foothold of the newly pronounced Moominpappa’s door, Moominpappa stepped out for a moment, only to be greeted with a sharp pain below his left foot paw. Looking down, he recognized the object below him as his old friend the Joxter’s shark tooth from their excursion on  _ The Amphibian _ . It was only the tooth that lay there in its lonesome, so Moominpappa took it in and placed it far back in his newly-built cabinet. He knew the Joxter wouldn’t be back for it.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh rough chapter BUT!!!! It will get better I promise you guys <:,)


	4. Very Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's such a small creature doing in such a large forest?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH hi guys! It's been a hot minute since I posted, and I'm sorry about that! I've just had a lot of schoolwork and haven't had time to really complete this chapter. But I got around to it! Thank you guys sooo so much for your support! I've read your comments and I'm so blessed by all of your love! Thank you thank you thank you. I definitely have never felt so much love for my writing, it really warms my heart! Hope you enjoy!

How unforgiving the river could be in the winter. She was just irritable for having snow fall from those foul trees upon her. For ice to gather in her currents, so neatly arranged and toyed with - it was no wonder she never would have let a small mumrik wake in peace. And even so, she still splashed his back paws with her frigid fury, how dare he fall in her waterfall! She had no time in the day, for she was busy organizing the ice on her headboard for a winter’s rest.

In the same way a million sandburs feel on one’s skin, Snufkin woke in sharp pains. As his mind dug out from the hole it lay dormant in his body became increasingly aware of itself. There was so little of him, and so much more of him was taken by the season’s hands. The poor boy couldn’t even begin to open his eyes - It had almost seemed they were frozen shut, but Snufkin didn’t want to test it. He simply hoped they would open again in their own moment. And anyhow, he didn’t feel like he had to see the world around him quite right now. His heart wanted nothing. It beat slow and solemn much like ants who have no mound to return to, and Snufkin only had to feel the gravel below him sticking into his skin. He began feeling his sensation travel to his back, something so oppressive it gave rise to a small whimper. The mumrik’s clothing was a kind of soaked that was unshakable, unspeakable. It lay like a blanket of grief on him. Horrible and cold.

Snufkin didn't understand anything about this. The pain was all foreign to him. He only knew warmth. Did he know warmth at all? He was so alone. Why was he so cold, what made him feel so cold? Was it always like this? That thought broke his spirit. If it was always like this, would he never dry? Did he ever, in his small life so short and inexperienced, ever feel something else? Even now, Snufkin was ever too weak to let his thoughts race. So instead, he whimpered. Such a small creature could only cry. In his dimming memories he searched for something to mourn, something to give him purpose. But nothing arose, and the mumrik thought his crying even more pointless. What a lonely thought to make him cry all the more.

  
  


Freckles of light landed on the soft earth from high above the canopy, where the leaves soughed and danced. The tiny mumrik used this light to navigate his way through the forest. His knees and elbows were scraped up and his calves burned and ached, for he had been walking through layers of thick undergrowth for a long time now. He didn’t really have a purpose, just a drive. Behind him he dragged his basket, tied by his scarf and around his waist. Snufkin had found it easier to crawl on all his limbs amongst the thorns and the roots. Walking on two legs just made it easier for the boy to trip and fall (and he learned that the hard way.) As the forest lowered itself into nighttime, Snufkin found himself trapped in crippling darkness. It was all the same whether he closed his eyes or not, and that terrified him. He crawled around some more, the sharpness of the ground below him heightened as he wandered. The pain was just enough to distract the boy from his terrible headache and the cramping in his stomach. As quickly as he felt lost, his sore paws came upon some very soft grass. As last, a clearing! The boy felt for the basket and scarf behind him to pull himself under, but before he could accomplish this he was suddenly surrounded by blue caps and bright green fluorescence. All the mushrooms and plants began to light up the forest floor, their shapes now distinguishable. There were a number of them, their light creeping up the tall trees to reveal the whole clearing. How beautiful, he thought. Snufkin had never seen his paws colored so vibrantly, and he took the moment to stop and observe them. They were so soft and tender now, and even with the glow of the clearing it was much too dark to see if he’d obtain any thorns or scratches.

He remembered his pappa, how he used to squeeze the boy’s paws to hold them in his own a little longer. He most certainly had a pappa who loved him, contemplated Snufkin. He didn’t know where his father was, though, or what he was doing without him. Suddenly, the boy’s heart began to fill with a new kind of heaviness. It was a feeling he didn’t particularly welcome, but he was feeling something, and maybe that was just enough for him. The mumrik struggled to give this feeling a name. He didn’t know what to call it, but now the colors around him grew so sad upon him and the hues gave color to new tears on his cheek. Snufkin whimpered quietly, his squeaks and sniffling echoing throughout the clearing. It was a lonely life for the mumrik.

Somehow, the boy awoke feeling sore. He didn’t quite remember going to sleep, but no matter. Now his eyes felt rested, and that was something to be grateful for. His ears abruptly caught the sound of rustling brush, and the boy looked out from under the basket to have some sight. It was a porcupine family, stumbling over the grass and picking some of the mushroom caps as they went along. Snufkin was excited to see someone else in this forest.

“Hello, ah,” the boy muttered. The family all turned towards him, stopping themselves in their tracks. The mother looked at him horrified but her children seemed amused enough. She scurried over to Snufkin’s basket, petting at its torn handiwork.

“Little one! Why do you wander this forest all alone?” Snufkin felt the porcupine observing his features carefully, and he grew flustered. The only one that must have looked at him that way was his pappa.

“I’m not sure, miss. I might have always lived in a basket.” Snufkin sighed, partly defeated and partly concerned. “To be honest, I think I’m in a dream. And to be  _ really _ honest, I think my pappa is waiting for me to wake up. Is there any way you can help?” The porcupine looked wildly perplexed, and Snufkin grew more red. She thought he must have been in this forest far too long for anyone’s good. But in her heart she felt there was a sort of grieving in him, and she gave him mercy for it. She was certain this child was abandoned.

“But maybe all that was a dream, hm? And perhaps you’re very wide awake now, so I wouldn’t worry. I mean, it makes no sense for all this to be a dream!” She made a motion to generalize the vicinity and moved to pinch his cheek with her tiny paw. Snufkin winced; it didn’t feel good not being taken so seriously, as that was just about how he had felt. Yet again, he didn’t know if he had taken himself seriously either.

“It sure was a nice dream then. I hope to have it again,” the child mumbled. Of course, Snufkin only half believed himself when he said this. But maybe he didn’t know any better. Maybe it was best just to think of his long gone father a dream. And besides, what else could he say to a porcupine and her children? It was a tango of wits in his brain. 

The mother, not wanting to stay too long as to feel obliged to bring him with her, passed to the boy two baguettes and a pot to collect water in from her sack. She wished him off, hoping the best for him. As she walked away with her children in tow, the myth of the mumriks arose in her mind from a lost place. Oh, how rare they were! And how tragically lonely they get, for there aren’t that many of them. She was very sure that he was a mumrik, judging by his tiny paws and big round eyes. But never did she think they could be so small. The park keepers made it seem as if they were such large fantastical creatures, the lot of them capable of causing a forest terrible destruction. No doubt this one must have been disposed of.

Snufkin watched as she left and peered his head from underneath the basket, his eyes following the light that landed on the tree before him. These trees were so, so big. Oh, Snufkin's head craned towards the sky but he could see no end to them. He couldn’t see much past the high canopy that stretched across the sky like dark clouds. He longed to be up there with the sun, to hear its secrets, its stories.

But then he had a thought, momentarily until it was not. These trees had buried their feet deep below the earth. Oh, so they've settled. But how far they’ve worked to travel! How much they've grown from their base. Snufkin could practically hear the cones rattling on their branches as they scrambled to reach high above, seeing the landscape before them. It was a curse, then, for these trees to be stuck so firm in the ground. Given them legs maybe, Snufkin thought, and they may perhaps walk the land to their heart's content. Yes, Snufkin was sure about that. Maybe this was how all people like Snufkin were to happen. Maybe all creatures need to grow out of their places and search the land simply to search it.

And perhaps that's why his pappa had wished him farewell, so that he may too walk the land. How Snufkin wished he didn't, though. He held the scarf around him tight in his hands and stood up with his chest puffed and his tail straightened out. It was time to walk.


	5. It's Been Too Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the family recollects their tales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sOOooOOo sorry this is so late!!! Omg I have,, almost no excuse other than school.
> 
> But thank you, thank you, THANK YOU ALL for your support and your kind comments! You guys really keep me going. I'm grateful for all of my readers. You guys rock! I'm sorry I'm really lame but like my gratitude is just ENDLESS. I love you all I love you all I love you ALL!!!
> 
> Also Moomin is here! Finally, jeez.

“Is that true, every word of it?”

Snufkin nodded, quite unsure of the Joxter’s response. “Yes, I had nowhere to go but forward, pappa. I had to find purpose.” Snufkin made a motion to rest his head in his hand, and the Joxter mimicked him.

“Oh, son,” the Joxter sighed, extending it as he stared at Snufkin’s paws. “And all these years, son.” He turned undemandingly to face the Mymble and was quite startled with her expression. She had been waiting far too patiently for her turn to speak.

“Joxter-” the Mymble stopped herself from getting too heated, but to no avail. “I can’t believe it! How could you not have told me you left your son careening off of a waterfall!” Her fists his the table with might neither of the boys were expecting, and it startled them. Snufkin felt ashamed for his father, but in turning to get a take on his reaction he found the Joxter staring down, not really at anything.

“I know Mymble, I know too well,” was all he could muster.

“I trust you to take care of _our_ son, and you couldn’t even be burdened with that one task,” her face grew very red and even redder as she saw the Moomin family peering behind the threshold of the kitchen entryway. She turned her attention towards her son, becoming teary-eyed. “Snufkin, my dear, for his negligence I am sorry! I am so sorry!” She embraced Snufkin in a tight embrace. Anybody else who would have cried like she did would be deemed histrionic, yet the fact that such a bellow came from the Mymble made it so heartfelt that all in the valley that heard it shared her same unknown sorrow. Snufkin was paralyzed until she parted, whispering little apologies as she attempted to compose herself.

Moomin was watching intently at Snufkin’s expression from afar, not being able to comprehend his words amongst the Mymble’s sniffling. “Mamma,” he mouthed. “This is not going well, I think.” Moominmamma hushed him assuringly.

“Maybe not now, Moomin, but it will happen. Your pappa and I know the Mymble and the Joxter very well. They have strong wills in their own ways, but they will let family into their hearts at some point. Certainly.”

 

Moominmamma had invited the reunited families to stay for dinner. The Muddler, the Fuzzy, and Sniff all willingly agreed. They had come inside from the porch where they retreated, admiring what remained of the Muddler’s collection. The family had caught some snippets of Snufkin’s family’s tumultuous reunion but not enough to fully absorb the immense pressure in the kitchen as the three of them sat around the table, heads craned down. Not wanting to start a fury, Snufkin’s family remained put in their places taking the food around as it came along. Moomin noted how stiff Snufkin’s posture became and reached for his paw underneath the table, their digits intertwining gingerly.

“Snufkin,” he whispered. “Do you need to sit out?” Snufkin, his hair pressed and silky in the absence of his hat, turned to face Moomin with a reassuring smile.

“I’m fine Moomin, the food is really good.” His response, albeit strained, was soothing to the both of them. The two of them giggled as they watched the Muddler fumble with the spoon of the mashed potatoes. Moomin eyes once released from laughter spotted the Joxter from across the table blankly watching them touch and hold each other. It made Moomin very nervous, and he carried that with him for the rest of the dinner.

The food came around like clockwork. Beans passed from the Fuzzy to Sniff, Sniff passing the cabbage soup to Moominmamma as he took the beans, Moominmamma placing the beans back on the lazy susan to come around once more in a moment’s while. Time, however, didn’t move for Snufkin, who occasionally looked towards the Joxter’s way hoping that he’d catch his gaze to start conversation. But the Joxter kept his head down, his ears back, and his plate nearly empty. His whiskers were turned grey, and white pierced coarse black fur that ran under his red hat. Stuck into his hat were crinkled, wilted flowers that often shed tired petals on the plate below him. It was a sad sight, and Snufkin did not want to dwell on it much, so he’d turn away towards the rest of the table hoping maybe the next sight he catches of the Joxter would be a bit more jovial. It never was.

As the families shared their goodbyes, the Mymble was the first to leave. She said that her children must have been tearing up the house waiting for her to feed them. She gave her son one final hug, lifting him with her. She gave him a few trinkets from her coat pockets - silver chains, gold pendants, things he would never use. He thanked her graciously for them so, and then she was off.

The Joxter was nowhere to be seen, but all company there knew he was hiding somewhere.

 

Snufkin sat at his campfire for a good while, contemplating all he had learned that evening. This whole time he knew his father was real, that the longing he felt while standing amongst endless stretches of lilies-of-the-valley didn’t come from nowhere. Having everything realized, however, made him feel things that were unpleasant yet relieving. Part of him felt so sorry for the Joxter. Oh, all of the guilt on his shoulders. His thoughts were interrupted with sharp coughs, followed by rustling of the bush before him.

“Hello son,” the Joxter stammered. “Mind if I join you?” His figure came from the darkness. He stood tall, yet his words made him seem like a much, much smaller man.

“Yes, of course, Joxter.” It cut the Joxter deeply that he did not address him as pappa like he once did, but he knew it would have been wrong to push it. He sat himself down slowly, his bones creaking from age. For a while, the two of them sat in silence. It was not as awkward as any onlooker may think it would seem, for they both appreciated silence. It was Snufkin who broke their quiet admiration of the fire before them.

“Are you okay?” he lilted. The Joxter took a curious amount of time to peer up from the fire. He could have been lost in thought or thinking of nothing in particular. Snufkin didn’t know.

“Yes, s-Snufkin.” rejoined the Joxter. He had nothing much to say, like he had sewn his lips shut right there. He remained staring at his, his eyes dull in the light of the fire. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t be strong for his son now a full grown mumrik. It pained him. His gaze remained not lazy, rather tired. Very tired.

Snufkin stood to get a blanket from his tent. He had invited the Joxter the stay by the fire as long as he pleased. The Joxter only nodded, eyes fixated on the fire. That was enough for Snufkin, who reached his arms behind the Joxter so that the blanket draped his back. The Joxter’s clothes were much more tattered than his, but that is to be expected when you’ve been travelling your whole life. He wished him a hushed goodnight before retreating to his tent.

There in the darkness, Snufkin pondered vastly his father. Moominpappa’s stories made him seem so carefree and so much like Snufkin, making him seem all the more grand. But witnessing him here, sitting by a fire that for all its worth made the Joxter seem darker, had collapsed his image over all of his recovered memories. He was like a river stone worn out by time’s current constant sweeping over that bereaved creature. Over the years, he had lost his edges, his valleys and mountains, leaving behind a smooth husk of his character - his own heart exposed. He was vulnerable, cold, and unsure of a world with no certainties and no forgiveness. He was alone, Snufkin thought, for so many years, running away from guilt. Snufkin wondered if the Joxter even ran to look for him, but such a thought was mildly unpleasant. Oh, he should take the Joxter fishing tomorrow, and perhaps bring Moomin along. Yes, that sounds lovely. With that thought, he drifted off to sleep.

When Snufkin was deep in his slumber, only then did the Joxter begin to cry those endless tears he never let himself cry before. He let the tears fall, dried petals dropping in his lap as only embers were left to burn.


End file.
